by Alyssa Day
A collective gasp went up from the others, all six, no, all seven of them—she'd almost missed the one lying on the ground, blood dripping from his head as he raised it to look at her.
"She seeks to protect him where we have failed," he gritted out, wiping blood out of his eyes with one hand. "And we, sworn to his service."
Another one of them who looked an awful lot like Conlan nodded his head, face grim, then barked out a laugh. "She sure pegged you, Temple Rat."
Laughing Guy dropped to a crouch on one knee before her, smile fading to somberness, and bowed his head. "Your courage is unknown to us in humans, lady. You offered yourself to protect my brother. But you must let our healer help him."
She clutched at her head, trying to keep it from cracking open, shocked into silence as she recognized the source of the driving pain. It was him. The one kneeling in front of her.
No, not exactly. She looked at them all, wonder drowning out fear. It was all of them. Their emotions. Their rage and pain.
Riley reached out one hand to the huge man who claimed to be Conlan's brother, gently touched his arm, and then flinched back. "Pain," she whispered. "Fear for your brother. Fury and vengeance… who is Terminus! ..."
As the man's eyes widened, mirroring her own shock, she scanned the rest of the group. Colors, too many colors, pain, the percussion, the drums of their fury pounding in her brain.
Pounding in her heart.
Pounding in her soul.
Too much. Too much. Toomuchtoomuchtoomuch—
She smiled her best, most professional "Hello, I'm your new social worker" smile and primly clasped her hands together. "I've had enough now, thank you," she whispered.
Then she closed her eyes and, for the second time that night—the second time in her entire life—she slipped into unconsciousness.
But she heard him—Conlan's brother—as she fell down the dark well of silence into the black. She heard the shock in his voice.
"She read me, Alaric. My emotions. And she may have been thought-mining me. She was reading us all."
Barrabas lifted his head, hissing. Drakos raised his gaze from the maps on the table of Barrabas's private chamber. "My lord? What is it?"
"It's Terminus," Barrabas snarled, smashing the lamp off the table and to the floor. "He is dead."
"But—"
"Permanently dead. His connection to me snapped. I felt his violence and rage, as a master vampire will feel all of his bloodline." It was an unsubtle reminder. Drakos was not of Barrabas's bloodline, and so Barrabas always faced a twinge of doubt about him.
"Something—something new, Drakos. We're facing something new, and whatever it is—whoever it is—has the power to manipulate the elements."
Drakos turned his head to regard the steel vault door built into the wall. "Is it Anubisa? Are you still convinced that she seeks a return to Ragnarok?"
"The Doom of the Gods. Maybe. She is daughter-wife to Chaos. What else would she seek? She feeds not on blood, but on terror and despair."
As I would if only I could, and more and more as the years pass.
Drakos interrupted his master's thoughts. "Is it time to consult the scrolls?"
Staring at his most brilliant general, Barrabas pondered for a moment. Is he loyal? Can I trust him? Or, does it matter? If he helps me discover the answers I need, he can meet with an accident easily enough.
Barrabas crossed to the vault. "I think, perhaps, that it is."
Chapter 11
Conlan's nerve endings burned, pain searing through his body. He came awake with a roar, clutching the throat of the figure in front of him. "Death to the apostates of Algolagnia!"
And looked into Alaric's pitying eyes.
He released his viselike grip on the priest's throat, looking away. Pity was the one thing he'd never stand for—not now, not ever.
He needed—he needed—
"Riley?" he asked, voice hoarse. The healing process always burned the body, left the throat sore as if parched. Glancing down at his torn and bloodied shirt and the smooth, unbroken skin where he'd last seen a sword point piercing through, he knew he'd required a little help from Alaric.
Another debt to pay.
Alaric exchanged a glance with Ven, who stood on Conlan's other side, then looked back at Conlan. "She is unharmed," he said.
Conlan dragged himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, scanning the familiar room that he recognized as part of one of Yen's safe houses. It hadn't changed much in the years since he'd last seen it. Same utilitarian furniture. Same movie posters on the walls.
A couple of predators snarled down at him from the Komodo vs. Cobra film poster opposite the bed. Conlan looked from the giant beasts to his advisors and nearly laughed. He'd give even odds if the K or the C came up against his brother or Alaric.
On second thought, the reptiles wouldn't stand a chance.
"Yeah, she's all right physically," Ven added cryptically.
Conlan stood, swung around to face his brother. "What do you mean, 'yeah, physically'? Is she hurt? Did one of the vamp bastards get to her with some kind of mind trick?"
He was breathing hard with the effort of remaining upright, but damned if he wanted them to know. It was bad enough that Alaric got a free pass to his mind with every healing.
Ven shook his head. "No, in spite of the part where she threw her body in front of a vamp's foot to protect your thick skull. Or—hey, this is good—the part where she jumped on the back of the bloodsucker who skewered you."
Conlan's blood rushed out of his face, and the weakness in his knees doubled. "She put herself in danger for me? Where is she? I must see her now. I've got to—"
Alaric smoothly interrupted. "Perhaps you might say a word to young Denal, who believes, in spite of being outnumbered three to one—"
"Yeah, and in spite of his head wound," Ven interjected.
"That he has failed his prince," Alaric continued, his eyes snapping green fire at Conlan. "Perhaps you might consider the well-being of your men above that of a human."
Conlan clenched his fists, a berserker rage spiking inside him. He forced it down. "Perhaps," he mocked, "perhaps you might tell me where they all are, so I can go see for myself."
Ven motioned with his hand toward the doorway of the room, and Conlan headed toward it, first stumbling, then gaining strength as he walked. When he reached the doorway, he paused and looked around at Alaric. Remembering his duty, no matter how much the words stuck in his throat. "My thanks for the healing. And maybe, instead of berating me, you can figure out why my mind is full of nothing but this human female I just met."
Ven laughed. "Hell, Conlan, I can tell you that. She's freaking hot—"
Conlan whirled around, his hand rising without his volition to grasp the front of Ven's shirt. "You'd better stop right there, brother," he snarled. "Compare her to your whores at your own peril."
Ven whistled, clearly unimpressed, then peeled Conlan's fingers off his shirt. "At my own peril, huh? If she's got you using formal speak on me, big brother, I guess she really is special."
"Special, definitely. I'd say dangerous, as well," Alaric said quietly.
Conlan ignored him and headed out the door, finally clearing the fuzz out of his brain long enough to remember that he could reach out to Riley's mind. But when he tried, he got nothing.
Which didn't help with his peace of mind, by a long shot.
Ven led him down a short hallway to one of the house's several bedrooms and pushed open the door. Conlan could see a form huddled under the quilt, unmoving.
Fear pierced him. He clutched Ven's arm in a steel grip, as much to keep from running to her as for support. "You told me she was unharmed."
"Relax. She just seemed to shut down, mentally. Processing overload or something. And no wonder, after what she did." Ven sketched in the details of the battle, including Riley's part in it.
Conlan stood there and listened to how a fragile human had put her life on the line for him, and
pain stabbed into his chest. Right in the vicinity of the heart he thought he'd lost.
When Ven got to the moment when Riley had stood up to Alaric, Conlan's eyes gleamed. "That must have put a swordfish up his ass. A 'mere human' standing up to Poseidon's high priest? Damn, but she's brave."
Then he shuddered, self-loathing crashing through him. "Of course, I should have been protecting her. And the rest of you, too."
Ven put a hand on his shoulder. "Relax, bro. We had no way of knowing the vamps were sheathing their blades in poison these days. That sword wound wouldn't have even slowed you down without it."
Dragging his gaze away from Riley, Conlan looked at his brother. "And the rest of the Seven? Is anybody hurt?"
"Come on, I'll show you while Riley sleeps for a while. Mostly nicks and bruises, nothing they wouldn't get in a good game of Tlachtli," he said.
Conlan almost laughed. Trust Ven to compare a deadly battle to the ancient Atlantean game of court ball. Well, the Aztecs had sacrificed the losers when they'd played it, right?
They headed back down the hallway toward the room Ven had turned into a games and TV room. "Denal got bashed pretty hard in the head. Luckily, his skull is damn near as thick as yours. Plus, he's got a big-ass case of 'I failed my liege lord' going on. You may want to say something."
Conlan clenched his jaw. "I'm a big boy. I don't care about me. But you—all of you—need to protect Riley for me."
Ven's mouth dropped open, then he snapped it shut. "So. I'm gonna wanna know how this chick brought you to this state in—what?—a few hours!"
Conlan blew out a breath as they rounded the corner. "Yeah. I'd like to know that, too."
The six warriors lounging in the room came to various forms of attention when Conlan and Ven walked in. Justice, his ever-present sword sheathed on his back, leaned against the far wall against the Godzilla movie poster. He paused from studying the view outside the room's single window, flicked a mocking two-fingered salute Conlan's way, then turned to look outside again.
Bastien and Christophe were doing battle on the air hockey table in the corner. Bastien's huge hand swallowed the mallet he used to strike the puck. They looked up at him, but didn't stop knocking the yellow disc back and forth across the table.
Brennan muted the sound on the television, then slowly rose from the couch to stand. He gazed at Conlan, dispassionate as ever. Poseidon had cursed Brennan for a minor transgression involving a Roman senator's daughter by removing his emotions.
Except maybe having no emotions wasn't a curse, but a blessing.
Conlan wasn't entirely sure. Especially with his mind continually trying to reach out to Riley, who still lay unresponsive.
Alexios ducked his head, a new habit. Then he defiantly raised it and shook his hair away from his face. The terrible scarring caught the glow of the lamps; the light shadowing twisted ridges and valleys of flesh.
Conlan remembered how Alexios, with his dark blue eyes and long mane of brown and gold hair, had always been forced to fight off the women. His eyes returned to the scarred left side of the warrior's face. Would a woman be repelled by it or drawn to the pain haunting his eyes?
It wasn't a question Conlan would have thought to ask. Not before—not now—but for the awareness of Riley sheltered in his mind.
Conlan met Alexios's gaze. "Never be ashamed of scars you earned defending me from Anubisa and her plague of vampire guards, my brother."
Alexios made a sound, nearly a growl, low in his throat. "Scars earned failing to defend you, you mean, my lord. As we failed to protect you again, tonight."
A small sound, abruptly cut off, swung Conlan's attention around to the far corner of the large room, where he saw Denal half sitting, half reclining against the back of another couch.
"Denal, are you healed?" Conlan asked, striding over to talk to the youngest of his guard.
Denal grimaced. "I am healed. Tired, but Healed. Except for my heart, my prince. My heart is desolate for having failed you."
Placing his hand over his heart, Denal looked up at Conlan. "Please take my life now."
Conlan blinked. "Do what!"
Ven snorted, standing just to the right and behind Conlan. "He's read too many old scrolls. Plus, this is his first trip topside."
Ven dropped into an easy crouch beside the younger man. "Dude, you've got to haul your vocab into the twenty-first century."
"Dude," the warrior bit off. "However you phrase it, the truth remains the same. I was nearest to Conlan when that vampire attacked him. I should have taken the blade."
Conlan reached out to lay his hand gently on Denal's head for an instant. "However, from Ven's account, you were battling three vampires on your own, including another one who'd tried to gut me, right? And you took an axe to the side of your head?"
Denal dropped his eyes, but nodded. "It was only the flat end of the axe, my lord."
Bastien interrupted, his low voice a rumble. "Yeah, at least it was his head. Nothing important in there to damage. We're golden."
Conlan felt the laughter rising in him at Bastien's familiar teasing, but knew Denal was far too earnest to understand that his prince wasn't laughing at him. He bit back his humor and turned a serious face to his youngest warrior. "Thank Poseidon that it was the flat end of the axe, or your head would be split in two. And enough with the 'my lord' and 'my prince' stuff. Call me Conlan."
He turned in time to see Justice snort and roll his eyes. "Do you have something to say to me, Justice?"
The warrior pushed himself away from the wall, uncoiling like a leopard preparing to strike. Strange that he'd always reminded Conlan of a jungle animal. Even with the blue hair.
"Conlan, prince, whatever we call you, the fact remains—you still haven't told us what happened to you. What Anubisa did to you."
Justice flicked his gaze down and then back up Conlan's body, his expression only the slightest fraction away from being a grave insult. "We don't know that you haven't been… compromised. Do we?"
As one, Ven and Christophe headed for Justice. "I'm going to kick your ass for that, blue boy," Ven snarled.
Christophe said nothing, just raised a hand, scowling. A shimmering ball of energy coalesced in his palm.
Conlan held up a hand to stop the confrontation. "Enough!" he commanded. "Leave him alone. He has a point."
Alaric's voice sounded from the doorway. "He would have a point, if I hadn't been the one who healed you. Both now and before."
Stalking into the room, Alaric came to a halt in the middle. "Do any of you doubt Poseidon's powers?"
Not even Justice dared blasphemy. As one, seven heads shook from side to side.
No doubt here.
Alaric smiled that terrifying smile of his—the one that kept even the greediest Atlantean lord kicking in his full tithe to Poseidon's Temple. "As you should not. The healing process is not simply physical. I see inside of the true intentions and darkest memories of the one being healed."
His gaze shot to Conlan. "Our prince is not corrupted, though any of the rest of you would have been. He is stronger than even he knows."
Conlan broke his gaze away. The idea of Alaric sharing his memories of torture and fire wasn't exactly comforting.
"Damaged goods."
"Warped beyond redemption."
Anubisa was the queen of lies, and yet maybe there was the edge of truth in what she'd told him so many times.
Alaric continued. "Left to Anubisa's delicate touch, most of you would have broken. Conlan came back to us whole. Stronger than he was before. Do not question his rule in front of me again, Lord Justice."
Justice bowed his head. Either he agreed, or he was biding his time for challenge.
Conlan decided to worry about the latter at another time.
Alaric almost casually waved one hand, and the energy ball still glowing in Christophe's hand winked out. The warrior snatched his hand to his mouth, hissing.
"Don't play with power in front of me, little b
oy," Alaric said to him. "You refused the strictures of the Temple."
Christophe, a good two centuries past being a boy, little or otherwise, stepped toward Alaric. Defiance outlined every inch of the tightened cords of muscle in his neck and throat.
"Poseidon's power isn't limited to those of you who let the Temple cut your balls off, priest. The power of calling water and the other elements is free to those of us who dare."
Alaric's eyes gleamed so brightly it was as if a piercing green searchlight flashed over Christophe's face. "I don't think you want to have a discussion about balls with one who faced the Rite of Oblivion and lived. There are no eunuchs in my temple, little boy."
Christophe didn't back down. "Yeah, well, the rite of acceptance as a Warrior of Poseidon is no solstice picnic. Perhaps you ought to remember that, old man?"
Conlan stepped between the two of them, even though Christophe had shown enough sense to step the hell back. "That's enough. We need to focus on the Trident, as you keep reminding me, Alaric. Not settle old scores—or start new ones—right here in front of the hockey table."
He turned to Christophe. "And not all elements, Christophe. You know that fire is forbidden to the Warriors of Poseidon—to all Atlanteans."
Bastien slammed the air hockey puck into its goal with a flourish. "Yeah, nobody would be stupid enough to play with fire, my pr—er, Conlan. We're golden. Why don't you and Alaric get some rest so we can get an early start in the morning? We have some Mycenaean ass to kick."
Alaric nodded. "I admit to needing rest after performing two healings. That poison took more than a little effort to disperse."
Conlan noticed for the first time that Alaric's face was almost gray and cursed under his breath. A ruler should be aware of the health and needs of all of his subjects. Even those who were strongest.
Yeah, well, I suck at being a ruler. No argument there.
"Rest," he ordered. "I'll be in with Riley. Ven, set up shifts to watch. You can—"
Ven rolled his eyes. "I know what to do, Conlan. This isn't my first day on the job."
Conlan inclined his head, returning to formal speak to underscore his demand. "I cede the task to the King's Vengeance. All of you—remember your early training and shield your emotions."